Janelle Nanos – Intelligent Travelhttp://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com
Cultural, Authentic, SustainableThu, 08 Dec 2016 22:12:53 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.6.120816289Road Trip Bliss: Portugal’s Southern Coasthttp://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/09/15/road-trip-bliss-portugals-southern-coast/
http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/09/15/road-trip-bliss-portugals-southern-coast/#commentsMon, 15 Sep 2014 17:59:03 +0000http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/?p=55505Portugal is made for wanderers. From the top of the Moorish remnants of Castelo de São Jorge, Lisbon cascades downhill in all directions, new paths beckoning at every turn. To the south, the 25 de Abril bridge spans the Tagus River, a ringer for San Francisco’s Golden Gate. Across the harbor, the outstretched arms of the “Cristo Rei” statue remind me of Rio.

I’m at once exhilarated and overwhelmed. Since arriving in the capital, my husband, Tim, and I had hopped trams and traipsed through the Alfama district, where the cobblestoned streets contort into knots. We had taken in the austerity of the Sé cathedral. We had woven around clubgoers in the Bairro Alto.

But even after the perpetual motion of the past few days, restlessness had started to seep in. Something about the city stirs up my need to move. It’s not just me: Legend goes that Lisbon got its start when Odysseus, the mythical Greek warrior, passed through, and vagabonds have gravitated here ever since.

In the 15th and 16th centuries, Portuguese sailors expanded the mapped world by setting off from Iberian shores: Vasco da Gama headed south, arriving in India after navigating around the Cape of Good Hope, while Ferdinand Magellan pushed west, his expedition completing the world’s first circumnavigation.

As a child, dragging my finger over the globe, I retraced those intrepid men’s routes. As an adult, I’m always dragging friends down alleys in search of the authentic. So when I learned that Portugal’s coastline south of Lisbon was among its least visited regions, Tim saw the telltale glint in my eyes. He was sold when I told him that our end point, Sagres, sits on a precipice jutting into the ocean near Europe’s southwesternmost point. Early navigators once considered it the “end of the world”—a romantic grace note to this trip marking a dozen years together.

A city emblem since 1884, when funiculars debuted in Lisbon, trams are picturesque and indispensable. (Photograph by André Vicente Gonçalves)

Before we embark on our voyage, though, we need to get out of the parking lot at the Lisbon airport. Tim hasn’t driven a car with a manual transmission in over a decade. So here we are, bucking in our seats as the car stalls. If only we had a fleet of ships instead of this Fiat. Though I’m hoping Nüvi, our smooth-talking GPS, will do us more good than an astrolabe and sextant.

“You know what you’re doing, right?” I ask, and Tim shoots me a sideways glance while tapping the gas. All of our plans hang in the balance—really, in the clutch. Something tells me the mapping of the New World would have turned out different if there had been more marital bickering involved. “I’ve got this,” he says, and the car roars to life, and we lurch forward.

Soon enough we’ve made it to Belém, a historic district on the outskirts of Lisbon that served as the launching point for hundreds of voyages. Engravings of sea mermaids writhe on the facade of the Jerónimos Monastery, a World Heritage site where da Gama’s body now rests.

The mural in the adjacent maritime museum shows Prince Henry the Navigator (1394-1460) surrounded by knights and geographers as he unscrolls a map. Though many historians contend that his reputation was exaggerated, the prince financed numerous fleets and played host to prominent astronomers, cartographers, and scientists at his legendary nautical school in Sagres. “These guys are no match for Nüvi,” Tim jokes.

We grab some fuel—a pair of cinnamon-sugar-dusted custard tarts at the nearby Pastéis de Belém—for the climb up the Padrão dos Descobrimentos. A monument to Portugal’s role in the age of exploration, the huge edifice points out toward the water like the bow of a ship.

To our west the iconic Tower of Belém stands guard over the harbor as it has for nearly 500 years. The limestone fortress incorporates design details from Morocco, Venice, and India, inspired by da Gama’s journeys. A carving of a rhinoceros commemorates the real one that India gave Portugal as a diplomatic gift in 1515.

Largo do Santo Antonio, a square in the capital (Photograph by Mauricio Abreu/AWL Images)

All of which reminds me: We need to keep moving. After another round of wrangling the clutch, our silver car kicks into gear and we slide over the wide red bridge south under the Cristo Rei’s open arms.

Thirty miles away is the port town of Setúbal, known for dolphin sightings and fresh seafood. It’s getting late in the day, and Tim is starving. “Just a bit farther,” I insist. I’m determined to get dinner in Portinho da Arrábida, a tiny village I’ve spotted on the map amid the cliffs and coves of Arrábida Natural Park.

As the Fiat hugs the limestone rock face and we gain elevation, a forest of cypress and magnolia trees unfurls below. The village is nearly empty when we pull up, save for a few stray dogs and a handful of backpackers. A yellow dinghy bobs in the water. The horizon turns indigo, and I grimace, worried I’m setting us up for a dinner of emergency granola bars.

But we’ve arrived just in time. At one of the seaside cafés, our waiter jabs a finger toward the menu listing for fish stew—the only thing still available. Seated on the patio, we have the view of the water to ourselves. A few minutes later, a steaming bowl of shrimp, mussels, razor clams, and rice arrives, and we dig in, sucking the heads of the shrimp.

The next morning, the two of us drive aboard an acid green ferry to the Tróia Peninsula, a tourist enclave of golf courses, modern hotels, and white-sand beaches. We claim a stretch of sand in Comporta, then sip cocktails in the Ilha do Arroz café, a setting so stylized it could have its own Instagram filter. It’s tempting to give in to this shade of paradise, but perfection isn’t what I’m after. As I scan the water for bottlenose dolphins, Tim picks up on my signals and can tell I’m ready to move on.

So we return to the road and push farther south, where the marshy rice paddies give way to the rolling hills of Sines, the birthplace of da Gama and now home to a modern arts center. It’s the last dose of contemporary life we’ll have for a while; here begins the truly wild coastline of the Alentejo.

Belém’s Jerónimos Monastery (Photograph by Lucas Vallecillos, Redux)

Tim pulls over for a break, and I spot the signs that mark the Rota Vicentina, a recently built network of trails delineating some 200 miles of the southwest coast. Our choice is between the blue and green Fishermen’s Trail, which winds along the cliffs, and the red and white Historical Way, which re-creates paths medieval pilgrims took through cork forests and fields of heather.

We hike for an hour overlooking the Atlantic, then linger to dangle our feet off a cliff’s edge. For the first time all week, my brain stops plotting our next move. Minutes float by as we get lost watching waves struggle to splash us from below.

As we drive south, cows graze along the highway. In Vila Nova de Milfontes, a small fishing village that endured repeated attacks by 16th-century pirates, we park and walk down to the water, following the aroma of Restaurante A Choupana, which we find tucked behind a police station.

On stilts along the ocean, the thatched-roof restaurant is surrounded by orange cacti flowers that glow like the embers of the grill the spot is known for. Inside, children with ice cream cones dash between picnic tables. The chef flips chicken and sardines over the coals.

Virgilio is our waiter. “Like the poet,” he says, bringing us a silver plate of steamed clams and the seared catch of the day. He grabs our camera off the table and makes us pose. “I take great pictures,” he says, framing a series with the surf crashing behind us. Even cheesy snapshots have the flair of poetry in this setting.

That evening, we check in at the Herdade da Matinha, a country house two miles down a dirt path off the highway. I had found the place with the help of Casas Brancas (named for Portugal’s whitewashed inns), an association of independent lodgings, restaurants, and outfitters in the Alentejo.

The nonprofit’s Marta Cabral told me that this region was long overlooked as a poor and sparsely populated swath south of Lisbon. But the Alentejo has emerged as an authentic alternative to the crowded beaches in the Algarve region farther south, she explained—a bastion of rural hospitality.

Sardines typically served on the Feast of San Antonio, in June. (Photograph by Rino Soriano, National Geographic Creative)

Owners Monica Belezza and her artist husband, Alfredo Moreira da Silva, cook all of the meals at the inn; da Silva’s colorful canvases accent each room. Tim and I pick oranges from the trees and eat them alongside the lap pool. After a dinner of roast chicken, grilled eggplant and sardines, and Portuguese wine, we spend the evening curled up by an outdoor fireplace. “I’m not sure I want to leave,” I say.

The next morning, we find da Silva in swim trunks standing on a ladder in the dining room, hanging a surfboard over a doorway. Belezza is standing by, carefully monitoring his balance. “We lived in the center of Lisbon, and always thought it would be nice to have a restaurant in the country,” she tells us. “We thought, ‘Let’s move to Australia’—then visited this part of Portugal and realized we could have that rugged diversity here.”

Their bliss is contagious. “Do you think we could open an inn some day?” I ask Tim. He smiles. “Do you think you could handle slowing down?” He makes a good point. Yet I feel an unexpected urge to put down roots and let travelers come to me.

But for now, we return to the mission at hand: the final stretch toward Sagres. We navigate mountain switchbacks, past the cliffs of Zambujeira do Mar and through tunnels of pine and eucalyptus trees. These give way to valleys scattered with cattle, then hillsides dotted with wind turbines.

We’ve reached that part of a journey where conversation would only get in our way. VW vans coated in dust carry surfboards on their roofs. As we coast into the Algarve and past the town of Vila do Bispo, I see what looks like quicksilver on the horizon. It’s the ocean. Then I do a double take: Is that an armada of windsurfer sails bobbing just a few hundred yards away? No, they’re on land, harnessing the wind on wheels, not waves.

Finally, we reach the windswept edge of Europe at Sagres and wander among fortress relics. A placard identifies Atlantic, Mediterranean, and African bird species, a mix not found elsewhere in Europe.

Tim notes the merging of worlds: Romans named this place Sacrum (“holy”), later drawing Christian pilgrims. Some are said to have stuck around to attend Prince Henry’s navigational school here. All that remains is a church, a few brittle buildings, and a massive circle of stones. As for its function, the best guess is a mariner’s compass.

A white stork glides above our heads, and we try to avoid vertigo looking down the 250-foot cliffs, only to notice a man fishing off the “end of the world.” There’s a tug on his line, and he grabs his rod between his knees—it’s a big one. The man strings a basket on the line and sends it down. Standing on the edge with the grace of a tightrope walker, he gently pulls on the line, maneuvering his catch into the basket. A few seconds later, the basket reappears, a silvery sea bream squirming inside. He pulls it onto the rocks. We clap; he raises his fists in victory.

“How long have you been here?” a man asks him.

“Two hours, and two fish,” he says. “And they’re big fish.” He smiles, wraps them in a bag, and packs up for the day.

We take his cue. Tomorrow will bring more fish—and more discoveries. Today belongs to this cliff, and to each other.

Janelle Nanos, a former editor at National Geographic Traveler, penned this feature, which first appeared in the magazine’s August/September 2014 issue. Follow Janelle on Twitter @JanelleNanos.

]]>http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/09/15/road-trip-bliss-portugals-southern-coast/feed/1055505Insider Guide to Portugal’s Southern Coasthttp://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/09/04/insider-guide-to-portugals-southern-coast/
http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/09/04/insider-guide-to-portugals-southern-coast/#commentsThu, 04 Sep 2014 19:30:52 +0000http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/?p=55463Portugal is made for wanderers. From the top of the Moorish remnants of Castelo de São Jorge, Lisbon cascades downhill in all directions, new paths beckoning at every turn. Surf camps dot the 215-mile stretch south of the storied capital city. Part of the region known as the Alentejo, this shore is far quieter than the Algarve beaches at the country’s southern edge.

Visitors would be wise to allot at least three days to leisurely explore the southwestern coast. Here are a few recommendations to get you started.

> How to Get Around:

Most rental car agencies in Europe offer manual transmission cars at lower prices than those with automatic transmissions.

If GPS isn’t available (even companies that promise navigational systems don’t always deliver), head to the Rent-a-Stuff center at the Lisbon airport to rent a unit (around $17 a day). Tip: Ask about toll payment policies.

Join the line snaking out the door at historic Antiga Confeitaria de Belém (aka Pastéis de Belém). Dusted with cinnamon and sugar, each egg-and-cream treat can be devoured in three bites—so order accordingly.

> What to Read:

In The Fourth Part of the World (2009), Toby Lester recounts the raucous tales of explorations, many of which set out from Portuguese shores, that led to the creation of the first map to name America.

> Travel Trivia:

Portuguese missionaries in the 16th and 17th centuries introduced Japan to batter-fried Lenten fish—the original tempura.

Portugal harvests over half of the world’s cork.

Fado, a mournful musical style, stems from the essential Portuguese trait of fatalism and was recognized by UNESCO in 2011 as an “intangible cultural heritage.”

This insider guide was reported by Janelle Nanos, a former editor at Traveler, to accompany a feature she wrote entitled “Explorers Club,” both of which appeared in the magazine’s August/September 2014 issue.

]]>http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/09/04/insider-guide-to-portugals-southern-coast/feed/455463Road Trip Bliss: Long Islandhttp://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/05/07/road-trip-bliss-long-island/
http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/05/07/road-trip-bliss-long-island/#commentsWed, 07 May 2014 17:46:46 +0000http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/?p=47006The east end of Long Island, New York, looks like the gaping jaws of a crocodile. I’m at the back of the animal’s throat, driving northeast on County Road 105, when I see the mouth opening wide in front of me. Here the reptile’s smile spreads around the Great Peconic Bay.

“Head north, head north,” I tell my husband, Tim, and the suburban sprawl so synonymous with central Long Island gives way to farmland. Hand-painted roadside signs advertise fresh eggs, raw milk, lavender bouquets. I roll down the windows, slide back the sunroof, and crank up the radio. My hand surfs up and down on the wind. I breathe deeply, inhaling salty air and a bit of dust kicked up from the road. “I love it out here,” I say, as Tim laughs. “I know,” he says. “You’re geeking out like a little kid.”

I was a kid when I first came here, out where the highways narrow to two-lane roads, where the houses grew larger, then small again, all the way out to “the End,” as the locals call it. Montauk. My extended family gathered to camp each summer at Hither Hills, an oceanfront state park outside Montauk. I learned how to ride a bike, fell in love with stargazing, and, most nights, collapsed into my sleeping bag after hours of wave jumping in the Atlantic.

Then, when I was 11, my mom and dad split up. Family vacations became casualties of an ongoing war. Neither parent ever took my brother or me back. When I met Tim, I confided that Montauk was “my happy place.” After a dozen years together, he and I have finally booked a campsite at Hither Hills. But before we ferry to Montauk, we need provisions from the island’s agrarian North Fork.

Finally I spot the large green and white house of Briermere Farms at the end of the road. “That’s it, stop there,” I tell Tim, pointing. “And get the cooler ready.” We fill our basket with plump berries, corn, tomatoes, and—the crown of our haul—one of the farm’s famous pies, a strawberry/rhubarb still warm from the oven.

As we drive east, rows of grapevines stretch out, their arms entwined like lines of family members gleefully dancing the “Hava Nagila”—almost as if the land itself is celebrating the North Fork’s evolution over the past four decades from potato to wine country.

“Good wine needs cheese,” says Tim, flashing a cheesy smile, and we turn right on Love Lane into the tiny thumbprint of a town called Mattituck. Inside the sunny Village Cheese Shop, a cherub-faced cheesemonger approaches us. “Anything in particular in mind?” asks the teen, and upon hearing our plans to visit some nearby vineyards, he reaches into the fridge—piled with some 300 varieties—and fishes out a raclette from Vermont. While carving off a sliver, he explains how it’ll keep in the warm weather. The cheese is pungent and smooth; Tim nods his approval.

Another few minutes on the road brings us to Shinn Estate Vineyards. Thwack-thwack, thwack-thwack. I hop out of the car to discover a windmill spinning frantically—and loudly—overhead. We slip into the recesses of the rustic tasting room, in a 125-year-old barn. A border collie immediately plops his head in Tim’s lap.

Owner and winemaker Barbara Shinn comes over to check on her sidekick, Panda, and offers us a pour of the estate merlot while explaining that the windmill and solar panels help power the vineyard, and organic, biodynamic methods use the natural yeast that develops on the skin of the grapes. “It looks like lavender baby powder,” she says.

Shinn’s husband and co-owner, David Page, weaves us around massive silver tanks. He tells us how the couple had opened one of Manhattan’s first farm-to-table restaurants in 1993 in Greenwich Village. Now they infuse their vineyard with the same locavore sensibility. “Foraging at its finest,” I tell Tim as we pick up a few bottles on our way out.

The sun begins to dip as we head farther east along Route 25, past plots of spinach and sunflowers, clusters of low-slung motels, and marinas and marshes. A bridge lifts us over train tracks; the sun glows over the pine barrens like the wick of a snuffed-out candle. From there it’s a short way to our stop for the night, Greenport, a 17th-century English settlement turned 19th-century whaling and shipbuilding hub. Now it’s a seaside tourist magnet, with B&Bs and upmarket dining such as Peconic Bay scallops at the Frisky Oyster.

On our way to dinner, I wander into one of Greenport’s many boutiques, the White Weathered Barn. I tap Tim’s shoulder to show him a rather clever souvenir, a flattened-out fork with “North” pressed into the metal. As we walk past Greenport’s centerpiece—an antique 1920s carousel encased in a sparkling glass structure overlooking the harbor—shrieks of laughter break out. Children clamor on the edges of their horses, eager for their prize: a brass ring that guarantees another ride.

The next morning, we pull up behind a milk truck onto the small North ferry. Before reaching the South Fork, we must pass through Shelter Island, an 8,000-acre spot of land (a morsel in the croc’s mouth). I pop open the car doors to watch sailboats slide through Gardiners Bay; a few leather-clad motorcyclists unstrap their helmets and stretch their faces up like cats toward the light.

The eight-minute drive across the island winds us past the Victorian cottages of Shelter Island Heights and along the Mashomack Preserve. I’d love to explore its 20 miles of hiking trails, but I’ve got Montauk on my mind.

“The North and South Forks have different personalities,” I begin to tell Tim as we disembark the South ferry. On the weekend, the roads out here clog with traffic from the East Coast elite who make the Hamptons their summer playground. Just then, a cherry red Alfa Romeo Spider convertible pulls up as evidence.

In Sag Harbor, we stop to stretch our legs and wander past the main drag’s old hardware shops and an art deco theater. At a housewares boutique called MONC XIII, I spy a Coleman cooler identical to the one in our trunk, only this one is encased in supple leather. It costs $835. As we race back to our car, suppressing laughs, Tim wonders how one manages to put anything in a leather-clad icebox without destroying its finish. “It’s a cooler—it gets dirty!” he mutters.

Continuing south on Route 114, I point out how the hedgerows grow taller and the homes get farther apart. “This is East Hampton,” I explain, rolling my eyes, and we take a quick detour down Dunemere Lane to ogle the thatched-roof Maidstone Club, a storied country club for the billionaire set.

It’s been more than 20 years since I visited Montauk, and as we drive through the town of Amagansett, my stomach twists into knots. I’m nervous the creep of the Hamptons has overtaken my Montauk. Over the past few years, I’ve seen its beaches become backdrops in hip magazine spreads.

Still, the drive remains the same. The scrub pines get shorter, and the road narrows at the Napeague isthmus, or “water land” as the Algonquins called it, past a series of lobster and clam shacks. As we skim over hills toward town, my stomach jumps, my nerves giving way to excitement. As if on cue, the chorus of Ellie Goulding’s “Lights” comes on the radio: “Calling, calling, calling me home.”

We pull into Montauk’s circular town plaza, where I’m happy to see the old Memory Motel, immortalized by the Rolling Stones, holding on, albeit near a Cynthia Rowley designer boutique and an outpost of Manhattan’s fashionable Momofuku Milk Bar. “Save Montauk” signs—with a red slash through a trendy fedora—have been posted around town. I worry I’m already too late. I’d hate to be perceived as another hanger-on.

Suntanned 20-somethings swarm the elevated deck at the Sloppy Tuna beach bar, but I’m relieved to see tradition enduring at the Shagwong Restaurant, with dapper waiters in ties and tan blazers. At hotels like the Surf Lodge, Sole East, and Ruschmeyer’s, a see-and-be-seen crowd angles for space among boho-chic tepees and picnic tables.

“It’s hard to get a fisherman’s rate these days,” admits Ken Walles, owner of the Oceanside Beach Resort, when we run into him in town. He has painted over his hotel’s famous highlighter yellow facade, save for a set of three smiley faces on its east-facing wall. “The town is changing, but you change with it,” he says.

Back in the car, we continue east to the brown-and-white-striped Montauk Point Lighthouse. “We’ve made it,” I say. “The End.” Tim and I skip stones and dip our toes in the Atlantic. My arms wrapped around his waist, we linger to let the new memory set in.

Our campsite at Hither Hills is calling, but first I instinctively throw a left off Montauk Highway. Every summer my grandparents, now gone, checked into the East Deck Motel, its blue neon sign overlooking the cliff-sided Ditch Plains beach. The sand is nearly purple, having been dredged up in a recent storm. A handful of surfers bob on their boards, waiting for the perfect wave.

The sky has begun to blush as we make our way to set up camp. Then I see it—the brown wooden sign with carved white lettering: Hither Hills. The flagpole clangs in greeting. Children scurry from the bathhouse wrapped in towels, their lips waterlogged and blue. Seagulls look up expectantly while we unpack our tents and cooler—no leather, but it’ll suffice—stuffed with North Fork goodies.

Kids are pedaling circles on their bikes, and the smell of charcoal mingles with the sea air. It’s just as I remembered—only better, because I’m back.

Janelle Nanos, a former editor at Traveler, grew up in central Long Island and is currently an editor at Boston Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @JanelleNanos. This piece originally appeared in the June/July 2013 issue of National Geographic Traveler magazine.

> Other Highway Highlights:

Cutchogue Village Green: Christened the “principal place” by the Algonquin Indians who once inhabited Long Island, Cutchogue is one of the U.S.’s prime sites for seeing original English architecture (with free tours on weekends).

Greenport Harbor Brewing Company: Locavores who tire of North Fork wine find another island sip in this tasting room next to Greenport’s tiny town jail. Try the Harbor Pale or, if it’s on hand, the rare Triton barley wine, named for the Greek messenger of the sea.

Mashomack Preserve: This tranquil Shelter Island park—sometimes referred to as the “Jewel of the Peconic”—features more than 20 miles of hiking trails, 12 miles of coastline, and one of the East Coast’s largest osprey populations.

Lobster Roll: This seaside shack in Amagansett, on the Napeague isthmus, claims to have invented the “cold” lobster roll. Locals just call it “Lunch,” thanks to the prominent neon sign on its roof.

Montauk Point Lighthouse: New York’s oldest functioning lighthouse was commissioned under George Washington in 1792.

Parrish Art Museum: Founded in 1898, this art gem moved to Water Mill last fall. Architects Herzog & de Meuron designed two low-profile wings that run in parallel, mimicking the forked geography of the island. Sky-lit galleries showcase works from the storied artists colony of eastern Long Island, most notably 40-plus pieces by William Merritt Chase.

]]>http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2014/05/07/road-trip-bliss-long-island/feed/247006Where’s Andrew? The Final Photo Cluehttp://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/31/wheres_andrew_the_final_photo/
http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/31/wheres_andrew_the_final_photo/#commentsMon, 31 Jan 2011 12:00:54 +0000http://local.dev/itblog/?p=3886All good things must come to an end, and today Andrew Evans heads home from Australia. We’ve had a great time following him as he spent the last two months exploring the country, and we thank all of you for your hard work coming up with the answers to his clues. For today’s final clue, we’ll send the winner a Complete National Geographic DVD set, which has every issue of the magazine from the past 121 years. Submit your guess here at the Clues Gallery.

January 31, 2011

An island oasis, far out at sea; my face in the wind, my back in the lee. No cell phones ringing, only birds singing; this island was perfect for me!

Where am I (place and state)? And what was the wind direction and strength (Beaufort scale number) at the time of this picture?

]]>http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/31/wheres_andrew_the_final_photo/feed/46930A Photo Gallery of Your Own in San Franciscohttp://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/27/a_photo_gallery_of_your_own_in/
Thu, 27 Jan 2011 13:00:14 +0000http://local.dev/itblog/?p=3861On my recent visit to San Francisco, I visited the gorgeous new contemporary photography museum at Pier 24. Described on its website as “a place to view and think about photography,” the museum is contemplative and quiet by design, allowing 20 visitors in at a time by appointment only. This, coupled with the fact that there are no placards on the walls to inform you about the artists, allows you to escape into the works and feel as though you’re wandering through a private gallery or someone’s home. Which is true in part: The museum houses the collection of banker Andy Pilara of the Pilara Foundation, and also will show other private photography collections, like the exhibit currently on display From the Collection of Randi and Bob Fisher (you can take a virtual tour of the current exhibition here).

It was stunning to walk through rooms filled with iconic images by Diane Arbus, Lee Friedlander, and William Eggleston (whose retrospectives have recently passed through Washington D.C.), and to realize the beauty in seemingly mundane architectural works like water towers, grain elevators, and gas tanks in Bernd and Hilla Becher’s typologies (pictured above). I loved the overwhelming, large-scale photos of Andreas Gursky, whose prints took up entire walls, transforming supermarket staples and Wall Street traders into pixels in a high-definition color cacophony.

The pier, which is situated just under the Bay Bridge (you can here the faint sound of foghorns as you wander the gallery) was left unoccupied for three decades and had holes in the floor when it was purchased by the Pilara Foundation. It’s now been renovated into a 28,000-square-foot space that opened last March. But despite being somewhat exclusive, one of the most brilliant aspects of this museum is that’s is absolutely free. Situated along the Embarcadero just a bit south of the Ferry Market Building, it’s easily accessible from downtown. Consider it a must-do on your next visit, just be sure to get a spot well in advance.

]]>6926Where’s Andrew? Photo Clue #42http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/27/wheres_andrew_photo_clue_42/
http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/27/wheres_andrew_photo_clue_42/#commentsThu, 27 Jan 2011 11:42:03 +0000http://local.dev/itblog/?p=3882 We here in Washington spent last evening wishing we were sunning ourselves on the beach with Andrew Evans, instead of digging ourselves out of the snowstorm that hit the East Coast. Luckily, we get to live vicariously through Andrew for a few more days. Make your best guess on today’s clue over at our Clues Gallery.

January 27, 2011

A day at the beach–I felt just fine, I wandered the city and came to this sign.

Where am I (city, state)? And which (single) street am I standing on for this shot?

Follow along with Andrew as he travels through Australia at @WheresAndrew on Twitter.

]]>6918Squirrels Around the Worldhttp://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/21/squirrels_around_the_world/
http://intelligenttravel.nationalgeographic.com/2011/01/21/squirrels_around_the_world/#commentsFri, 21 Jan 2011 16:00:27 +0000http://local.dev/itblog/?p=3867If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you probably know that our Senior Researcher and Twitter guru Marilyn Terrell (@Marilyn_Res) had a hand in making this little fellow (below) go viral about a year ago. (The backstory: Marilyn noticed the cuteness of the now famous Banff Squirrel photo and blogged about it here. It was picked up by news outlets around the world, got its own internet meme, and is now a celebrated mascot in Banff with its own Twitter feed.)

Well as it happens, I was talking with a few of my colleagues yesterday about how squirrels seem to evoke undue interest in people. A photo of a squirrel in India was one of the most retweeted posts from the @NatGeoSociety Twitter feed last week. And hordes of tourists are often seen taking photos of squirrels in the D.C. area because the city has a preponderance of black squirrels. Why? Eighteen black squirrels from Canada were released at the National Zoo back in 1902, when Theodore Roosevelt was president, in an effort to repopulate the breed. They’re now found throughout the District, and the subject of fascination by locals and visitors alike. (And I’ll add to the mix my own personal fascination: I’ve never seen a baby squirrel. Though I know they exist, I’ve yet to see one in the wild.)

So imagine my surprise to learn that today of all days is Squirrel Appreciation Day. To celebrate, I’ve assembled this lovely collection of squirrels from around the world from the thousands that have been submitted to our My Shot online photo site. Have a great squirrel pic to add to the mix? Submit it to MyShot and leave a link to it in the comments.

“Red squirrel in the snow. Winter 2010 in Poland was long and really severe.” Photograph by Dorota Walczak, My Shot.

“A shot of the Malabar giant squirrel taken in Mudumalai forest in the state of Tamil Nadu, India. Known to be very elusive, the Malabar giant squirrel is endemic to peninsular India and is on the IUCN list of threatened species.” Photograph by Shireen Ali, My Shot

[Ed. A cousin to the celebrity squirrel, this is another one found at Banff.] “This ground squirrel looked at me out of his nest. Picture taken in Banff National Park, Canada.” Photograph by Jacky Weiland, My Shot

“A squirrel begs for nuts in Parc Floral in Paris.” Photograph by Iris Ring, My Shot
“Squirrel photo taken outside of a Metro Station in Delhi.” Photograph by Harshit Vishwakarma, My Shot

“A squirrel eating a piece of fruit at Mayanar National Park in Tanzania.” Photograph by Sajjad Fasal, My Shot